


Transcendental Études

by bumbletea (starvingsnout)



Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: Artistic License - History, Frenemies, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, eddy is an expy of chopin though, sorry eddy, what happens when you watch paganini vs liszt too many times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starvingsnout/pseuds/bumbletea
Summary: Paris, 1832. Rising young pianist Breton Yang attends a concert given by mysterious violin sensation Paganini and decides to become a virtuoso. Best friend slash rival, fellow pianist Édouard Chen, is not impressed.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Paganini

Breton bursts into Édouard's apartment at Rue Poissonnière close to midnight, knowing full well the hours his friend keeps, panting fiercely. "Ah, my legs. Why did you take a room on the fourth floor? The view can't possibly be worth it," he complains, sinking into an arm chair.

Édouard finishes a phrase on the piano, immediately leaning in to write it on a manuscript. "I can see all the way from Montmartre to the Panthéon from my balcony. I dare say it is. What has you so agitated?"

"I've just been to see Paganini." Energy restored, Breton surges forward in the chair, silky black curls engulfing his round face.

"Right, the cholera concert." Édouard gives him a side-long glance. "You really ought to be more careful. At this rate you'll catch the disease in no time at all, and your health is poor as it is. Thousands have died already."

"It was worth the risk," Breton declares fiercely, "as I have found a new cause for my life."

"And that is?"

" _Paganini_. What a man, what a violin! I can't put it into words, you should have been there. It's like his soul is in his fingers when he plays, in his phrasing - that's how it ought to be! It's exactly how I want to be, as a pianist. As a performer."

"The Paganini of pianists. Piano Paganini. Le Petit Paganini."

"Mock me all you want, I don't care. I want to inspire people. I want them to go home feeling transformed, nay, transcended, after they've seen me play."

Édouard continues scribbling corrections on his manuscript. "And here I thought you were finally going to finish writing something substantial. What happened to your concerto? The opening seemed promising."

Breton makes a vague gesture. "I don't know, It's not going anywhere. I'll return to it later." He bounces from his chair, moving restlessly back and forth on the Persian carpet. "There was this amazing tune Paganini played in his concert, I don't think it's been published since I saw many people feverishly scribbling it down. If I could play _that_ on the piano, what might the reaction be? He's doing another recital in a few days, come with me then, I want to hear your thoughts. There's not much else interesting happening anyway since no one's got their salon open."

"I'm afraid I'll be busy moving. I've acquired new rooms in Cité Bergère."

"An expensive neighbourhood." Breton cocks his head. "What are you charging your students? Fortunes, I imagine, since you hardly ever give concerts."

"No more than they're willing to pay." Édouard smiles dryly and shudders in surprise when Breton suddenly leans over his shoulder, hair brushing softly against Édouard's cheek as he peers keenly at the manuscript. 

"What are you writing?"

"Just an étude."

Breton hums the notes under his breath, fingers drumming gently against Édouard's shoulder. "It's too lovely for an étude. Play it for me."

"Play it yourself."

Édouard retreats to the sofa against the opposite wall, feeling his heated cheeks in frustration as Breton's small hands glide across the keyboard, his entire body swaying along to the music. "That's not what I wrote, for heaven's sake," he raises his voice when Breton arrives at the bravura passage, improvising trills and tremolos where none belong.

"Your writing is too messy, I can't tell what it says anyway!" Breton laughs diabolically and begins distorting the melody to an absurd degree, turning the legato into staccato and vivace into adagio until it has become a different piece altogether.

What a lamentable thing it is, Édouard muses wearily as he reclines on the sofa, to have fallen for such a sacrilegious little creature. 


	2. Salon de Rothschild

For a whole fortnight Breton barely leaves his apartment, consumed by exercises. Thirds, sixths, octaves, tremolos, cadenzas - sometimes ten hours a day, never fewer than four. When he isn't at the piano, he devours novels by his friend Hugo and Chateaubriand as well as scores of Bach and Beethoven, hoping that in their genius he will find his own path to artistry sans rivale. He only ventures out to purchase a selection of Paganini's Caprices, determined to replicate them on the piano.

Eventually, Breton's passion subsides enough for him to set aside the massive undertaking and heads out to visit the Rothschilds, one of the few wealthy families to not have fled the city. Moving about in Paris these days has become a harrowing experience, he comes to find, pressing the camphor-soaked handkerchief close to his mouth, careful not to get too close to passers-by. The nauseating odour of chlorine painted on houses in hopes of warding off the disease saturates the air. The endless traffic of coaches carrying corpses to Père-Lachaise have brought the boulevards to a standstill, and gendarmes have been summoned to sort out the ensuing disagreements, sabres glinting in the sun. 

At the Boulevard de la Madeleine, a hearse is overturned and, to Breton's horror and fascination, a coffin falls to the ground, bursting open. He stands frozen for several moments, fixated on the ghastly blue face of a young woman in a cheap muslin dress, before hurrying along to 19 rue Lafitte, a palatial townhouse in the richest part of Paris. 

While a typical Rothschild soirée includes as many as sixty guests at once, the numbers have dwindled as cholera ravages the city, and on this particular night only about twenty are present, confined into two out of the seven sumptuous salons total. Breton finds Édouard in one of them, engaged in intimate conversation with the beautiful young hostess, Mme Betty von Rothschild, and pauses to observe them with growing displeasure. A passionate patron of the arts, the woman secured Édouard's highly exclusive services as a teacher immediately upon hearing him play and has all but robbed the other salons in the city of his presence.

Édouard insists he maintains a strictly professional relationship with his students, which Breton struggles believing, having himself engaged in a number of short-lived dalliances born out of hours of brushing shoulders and covert glances at the piano. Of course Édouard has his oddities as a teacher: he steadfastly refuses to teach anyone longer than an hour per session and won't even sit next to his students. It could all be simply a precaution to please the aristocratic parents, protective of their brethren, but sometimes Breton wonders if Édouard does not in fact suffer from a phobia of some kind since he seems averse to Brett's touches as well. The thought fills him with sadness.

"Monsieur Yang! Had I known you're still in Paris, I would have sent a carriage," Madame Rothschild says upon seeing him, the folds of her pink satin evening dress rustling as she rises to take his hand. 

"Did you come all the way here on foot?" Édouard asks unhappily, elegant in his blue velvet jacket. "You know it isn't safe. Not just because of the disease, but the gendarmes. They're particularly leery of those with foreign blood."

"No one paid me any mind," Breton says irritably, his happiness at seeing his friend subsiding. "And the gendarmes have their hands full with corpses." 

Édouard presses his lips into a thin line, but doesn't offer any further comments, withdrawing from the conversation as the madame continues on the topic of official recommendations on how to avoid catching the disease, namely the usage of the flannel belt, which many prominent figures swear by. At six they're joined by a father-daughter pair, one Monsieur Druml and his 15-year-old daughter Sophie from Vienna, rousing interest in both Breton and Édouard, having read about the girl's achievements in the Gazette musicale.

"Mademoiselle, you have chosen a terrible time to be visiting Paris," Édouard tells her once she is seated.

"Yes, I performed in a concert here only three days ago and almost no one came," Sophie says in a slightly German-inflected accent. "Monsieur Paganini even offered to perform with me, feeling sorry for me, but father didn't think it was a good idea."

"Have you attended his concerts in Paris?" Breton asks, leaning eagerly forward while Édouard sighs.

"How could I not? I saw him for the first time in Leipzig three years ago and here I have seen him once. I play the violin, as well, but seeing him play makes me want to give up."

"As long as you don't give up on the piano, mademoiselle, I hear you're quite brilliant," Édouard says eagerly in a blatant effort to change the subject. 

"Oh, but I have so much to learn. I'm thinking of staying in Paris to study, actually."

"At the Conservatoire?" Breton asks, reminded of his own attempt years ago to enter the academy, thwarted due to his foreigner status.

"Or under Madame Hahn. She has given me such a warm reception and as a pianist she is truly perfection"

"I couldn't agree more," Édouard says emphatically. "I thought of becoming a student of hers when I was a little younger, as well, but couldn't commit to the three years she required. There is such quietness and subtlety to her playing; I can only hope it won't go out of style in these times when everyone wants to be a virtuoso."

Feeling the barb, Breton opens his mouth to defend himself, but Madame Rothschild is already talking. "If Madame Hahn has offered to take you as her pupil, you must be something truly special. I should very much like to hear you play for us before we sit down for dinner."

They all file to the largest salon, with a grand piano, and Breton is happy to see Victor Hugo among the guests, eager to share first-hand knowledge of recent anti-government activities in the city. There is no time for much beyond a quick exchange of greetings, however, as Sophie has already sat at the piano, and so they agree to meet at Hugo's home the next day instead. 

Sophie starts by playing some of her compositions, a delightful set of caprices in the form of a waltz, but it is the following familiar études played from memory that have Breton drawing closer in shock and curiosity. Sturdy for her age and gender, she plays with such flawless execution, clarity and force that he feels a pang of alarm and jealousy. At 13 he was called "little Hercules" and "virtuoso from the clouds", had already performed all over Europe and in front of the king of England, but were his chords quite this robust?

"I apologize, Monsieur Chen," Sophie says to Édouard as she finishes and the enthusiastic clapping has subsided. "I bought your études the moment they were published, but I don't quite remember them yet and forgot to bring them with me."

"You played beautifully," Édouard says softly and Breton thinks he detects a wet glint in his eyes. "Whether you changed some notes or not."

"You never say that about my playing," Breton says, drawing laughs from everyone present, which he feels compelled to join even as he fumes inside. 

Édouard gives him an exasperated glance. "You're hardly in need of compliments," he says, but he couldn't be more wrong, because Breton lives off compliments and praise, especially from those not easily impressed, like Édouard. In fact, he spends the rest of the evening obtaining as much as he can, cheekily playing the entirety of Mendelssohn's difficult piano concerto in G minor with multiple additional passages of his own making. The German has already left Paris, but his encounters with Breton are still talked about in the salons, fuelled by the drawing Mendelssohn made of Breton as the devil playing the piano with hammers instead of fingers. 

Breton's favourite part of the night, however, is when after dinner Édouard, mellowed out by several goblets of wine, finally agrees to play Bach à quatre mains, their hands brushing over and over as they work together in bringing out the old master's brilliant polyphony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophie and Hilary Hahn are loosely modelled after Clara Schumann and Friedrich Kalkbrenner, respectively. You probably know Clara Schumann, one of the most famous pianists of her time (and could've been more if not for her marriage), but Kalkbrenner may not ring any bells. He was basically The Pianist all the way until the late 1830s when the younger generation finally usurped him; both Chopin and Liszt greatly admired him.


	3. Revolutionary Symphony

Édouard has lived in Paris less than a year, and his initial impressions of the city haven't changed much since his arrival. He has seen great splendour and great squalor in equal measure; met workers, beggars, charlatans, prostitutes, artists, merchants, priests, bankers and aristocrats. He has both endured meager means and seen his finances soar to the point of comfort, if not luxury. In other words, in a short period of time he has become well acquainted with the goings-on of the city from the ground level to the highest seats of power.

This naturally includes the simmering discontent among the city's poorest. Mobs gathering in the working-class neighbourhoods are a regular occurrence, accusing the government of a variety of infractions from food shortages to high rents. Most recently, a popular theory has spread of gendarmes in disguise putting poison into the buckets of water-carriers at public fountains, causing the cavalcade of deaths instead of cholera. A wide-spread uprising appears imminent.

Édouard sympathizes with the cause but refrains from expressing set opinions, considering himself ignorant of the practical aspect of politics. Unfortunately, he has entangled his life with that of Breton Yang, who arrived in the city in his adolescence, embraced it as his home and spends all too much of his time involving himself in its politics. Thus, on June 5th, he finds himself in the Tuileries Gardens engaged in a debate about the role of artists in politics with Breton and Victor Hugo.

"An artist should not get involved directly," Hugo is saying, nostrils flaring in their usual fashion, piercing eyes almost disappearing under the heavy brow. "He should comment on issues, bring awareness to injustices and shortcomings, elevate political events to dignity in his works when they deserve it. He should sympathize with the people, but not condone violence. And literature is of course the natural platform for such endeavours."

"Indeed, artists should never join the mob, that is one thing on which we could not agree more. And it is the duty of artists to ennoble those who have died bravely, regardless of the colours of the flags they carry. However, you're wrong about literature being the sole means of achieving such goals. Music is a perfectly capable vehicle for social reform. Just look at the power possessed by La Marsaillaise! Édouard, don't you agree?"

"I think," Édouard starts reluctantly, "you're both being contradictory. Hugo, you have admitted to inflicting misery on your characters solely to outrage the audience, to incite them into action. Breton, La Marseillaise is a battle hymn. _To arms, citizens, let an impure blood water our furrows._ Calling for bloodshed is not what I would consider staying above the fray."

Breton and Hugo start talking at the same time, incensed, and while they turn against each other, each demanding to speak first, Édouard reclines in his straw chair, and casts his eye on the vast, deserted gardens. Ostensibly, they're there to work, Hugo on a play, Édouard and Breton on music, but their good intentions evaporated all too rapidly in the open air. Édouard almost wishes he stayed home, but then he gazes at Breton, radiant in the setting sun, and regrets nothing. 

Most of Paris have gathered elsewhere, for the funeral procession of General Lamarque, a champion of the people, dead from cholera. Rumors of planned riots by republican rebels have been circulating for days, and the National Guard are on high alert. Édouard glances worriedly at the commanding edifice of the Tuileries palace, looming over the gardens. Two years ago, during the "three glorious days" that led to the abdication of Charles X, a mob invaded and sacked the building, and it is likely to be targeted again.

As if on cue, a distant sound of gunfire echoes in the evening, effectively silencing Breton and Hugo. "It's coming from the direction of Les Halles," the latter says when more and more follow. "A revolution must be under the way. I must see it!" Then he shoots out of his chair, papers scattering about him, and takes off down one of the large promenades. Breton follows a second later, ignoring Édouard's loud protests.

"This cannot be happening," Édouard says to no one, momentarily paralyzed by indecision, but Breton has already made it to the gate, and there's no time to think. He launches into a sprint, gravel crunching unpleasantly under his stiff shoes, and makes it out of the gardens just in time to catch a glimpse of Breton's wild black curls at the far end of Rue de Rivoli. An exhausting race across empty streets ensues, north up rue Montmartre, then right onto rue du Bout du Monde, one dirty alleyway after another, closer and closer to the fresh food market. When Édouard finally catches up to Breton, his friend has collapsed against a street corner, violently gasping for breath.

"I don't... know... where Hugo's... gone," Breton pants, squeaking when Édouard grabs him roughly by the arm, bringing them face to face.

"What in the devil's name is wrong with you? What are you trying to do? You're a pianist, Breton, not a revolutionary."

"I want to witness what happens so I can commemorate-"

"You'll be doing no such thing." Édouard locks Breton's wrist in an iron grip and starts looking for a way out, dragging his stumbling friend behind him as the rumble of guns and clamor of crowds grow ever louder around them.

Barricades are being raised all over, threatening to seal them in, and when they duck into the seeming safety of a deserted shopping arcade, the ironwork gates at either end are slammed shut. With no other options, Breton and Édouard flatten themselves between the decorative columns of a shuttered shop front, barely in time before bullets start flying from both directions. A burst of gunfire shatters masonry around them, and Édouard presses his eyes shut, coughing from the dust that rains on them. Then a hand fumbles into his and he clutches it tightly, silently swearing to start living his life to the fullest if they survive.

After about quarter of an hour the sounds of fighting finally recede, moving on to other parts of the city, allowing Breton and Édouard to make their escape. They manage to work open one of the ironwork gates at the end of the arcade and traverse the length of Rue Montmartre to the quiet backstreets of Cité Bergère in a jittery daze, bumping shoulders with every step. The portiére of Édouard's apartment building peers at them with great suspicion when they ring the bell, refusing to open the gate until she has held a candle right against their faces. 

Upon finally entering the safety of his apartment, Édouard walks into straight into the bedroom, tugs off his dust-covered jacket, and collapses into bed face down. It takes him a moment to realise the ringing in his ears is an echo from before rather than the street outside. He manoeuvres himself on his back, listening to the sounds of the building he has mostly learned to tune out by now - squeaking pipes, servants clambering up and down the stairs, the thud of Madame Dufour's cane as she prepares for bed. He makes a note of each and every one, determined to never take them for granted ever again.

Eventually Breton joins him, crawling on the bed. "I acted stupidly," he murmurs into Édouard's chest. "But, I have just finished writing the first movement of what I'm calling my Revolutionary Symphony, and I think it's going to be brilliant."

Édouard sighs, sinks his hand into Breton's hair and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected action sequence! I've been reading Victor Hugo's biography and just couldn't resist making use of his experiences in 1832. I feel obligated to mention that Chopin and Liszt had nothing to do with any of it. Although Liszt did join the crowds in the streets during the much bigger uprising of 1830 and afterwards started writing a "Revolutionary Symphony". (He didn't finish it until 1850, and by then it was called Héroïde funèbre.)


End file.
